


Love Is an Angel (Disguised as Lust)

by alwaysamy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysamy/pseuds/alwaysamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title from Springsteen's "Because the Night". </p>
<p>Set sometime shortly after "Changing Channels," S5. Established relationship.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Love Is an Angel (Disguised as Lust)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Springsteen's "Because the Night". 
> 
> Set sometime shortly after "Changing Channels," S5. Established relationship.

Dean wakes with his face mashed into the pillow, his arms tingling where they're folded beneath it, and Cas's fingertip following the jut of his shoulder blades. Careful, slow, purposeful, feeling for the ridge of bone and the muscle laid over it.   
  
Castiel, student of ... well, pretty much everything, but lately, very specifically, human anatomy and sexual response.   
  
Dean closes his eyes again, trying to slow his breathing and relax into the wrinkled sheets. Cas puts a lot of time into extra credit work, and it's a little unnerving, to be honest. Dean's never sure what to do when he wakes up to Cas's tongue tracing his ribs and his breastbone, or his fingertips slowly walking the terrain of Dean's face. He's never had this, whatever this is. Sex, sure. Fingers, mouths, cocks, tits, all of it in most of the possible combinations. But this? This is a kind of intimacy Dean has never known, not even with Cassie. He doesn't know if that was just a young and stupid thing, or due to how little they actually knew each other, not that it matters anymore. She never did this, exploring his body head to toe, as if she needed to learn him piece by piece, as if everything from a stray eyelash to the crook of his elbow is worthy of attention.   
  
And if Cas thinks he's still asleep, Dean can ride out the feeling of being torn wide open, exposed and helpless and terrified of how much he likes this, without Cas seeing what it does to him. Because this ... this isn't sex, not really. That's what he doesn't know what to do with. This is ... new.   
  
"I know you're awake."   
  
Fuck. There's never any fooling him, and Dean doesn't know if his angel senses tingle or what, but it's a lost cause now. He grunts and rolls to his side, blinking. "And whose fault is that?"   
  
"Mine, I assume." Cas's eyes are as wide and blue and untroubled as ever when they're alone together like this. Which they are, more and more often. Sam accidentally got one glimpse of naked angel ass and started getting his own room. "I wasn't trying to be ... stealthy."   
  
"Score one for you, then."   
  
"Dean."   
  
Sometimes Dean thinks it's Cas's patience that's so infuriating. Dean could smartmouth for hours, and Cas would wait it out, head tilted, calm. Just the thought of it twists Dean's insides into knots worthy of the pit itself. Cas isn't interested in Dean's body. Well, that's not true. He's interested in it, all right, but if Dean took it away, shrugged off Cas's hands and mouth and the rigid heat of his cock, now pressed against Dean's thigh, Cas still wouldn't go anywhere. Cas would stay. Cas wants  Dean , what's inside. Every broken, filthy, rotted, tired piece of it.   
  
He can never decide if he's ashamed that he has nothing better to offer, or disappointed that Castiel, bad-ass angel of the frigging lord, has fallen far enough to want it.   
  
Yeah, Cas will stay. Until, unless, God wants him somewhere else, or the angels who aren't dickheads realize a rebel with wings might be a useful weapon in their armory. And that's right, that's the natural order of this completely fucking unnatural thing between them, and that could be what Dean hates knowing the most. But he can't ask an angel to love him more than he loves God.   
  
"You want coffee," Cas says mildly, and reaches out to follow the line of Dean's bottom lip, stroking it softly.   
  
That's his out, right there. Freely given, and happily taken most mornings when they wake up this way, naked in the stale, sweaty sheets of another motel room. He can grouse and pout and Cas will get up, make coffee or go out for some, trenchcoat flapping behind him like surrogate wings, and Dean will breathe a little easier. Plunge into the day with a shower and a few industrial-strength hits of caffeine, get on the road where the car will take him to the next hunt, the next motel, the next moment when fucking and being fucked is just release, adrenaline and endorphins and the promise of a decent night's sleep, sated with the contented hum of well-used muscles and the pleasure of another body beside him.   
  
That's how he keeps this simple. Draws the line in the proverbial sand. He could do it now. Should, probably. They're still in Ohio, Dean still has the tune to that stupid sitcom theme in his head, and getting some highway between here and wherever they need to go next is a damn good idea.   
  
Instead, he says, "No." It comes out low and rough, more growl than word, and Cas just blinks. Doesn't question him, either. Just strokes Dean's lip again, slower this time, before pressing down, just hard enough that Dean opens his mouth in answer. Licks the smooth pad of Cas's finger before he pushes up with his tongue, sucking hard.   
  
He's absurdly proud that he doesn't close his eyes. Watches Cas watching him the whole time, sees the quick flutter of lashes, the flare of heat, understanding. Before he can think twice, he rolls onto his back, showing belly like a dog asking to be stroked, and breathes through the abrupt hammer of his heartbeat until it evens out again. Cas gives him ... well, Cas gives him a lot. Dean can give a little, too, when he knows how much Cas likes to do this.   
  
It's weird that it feels so much like taking instead.   
  
There's a stain in the shape of a giraffe on the ceiling, and Dean stares at it while the sheets rustle and the mattress dips as Cas moves. He's still naked -- his two modes seem to be fully dressed, including trenchcoat, and nude, which is fine with Dean. He can't imagine Cas in jeans and a T-shirt, really, and he doesn't like to remember the Cas he saw in the future. He can't believe he's even thinking about it while Cas is straddling his thighs and bending forward to smooth his hands over Dean's chest, thumbs circling his nipples, mouth touching down on his sternum, his collarbones, the pulse at the base of his throat.   
  
Fuck, he's in for it now.   
  
He starts to shake -- it's not  trembling , he doesn't care what the OED would say, fuck you, Sam -- somewhere between Cas licking the curve of each ear and leaving stinging, awesome bites in a necklace at the base of his throat. His knuckles ache, because he's curled his fingers so tight in the sheet it's about to rip. Cas is crouched over him, a ghost of space between them except where his knees are pressed into Dean's hips and his feet are tucked under Dean's thighs, and he's practically feeding, all mouth and teeth and tongue. He's taking his time, like they don't have the goddamn doomsday clock ticking down, and Dean is hard already, skin lit up everywhere Cas has touched. A distant part of him thinks he should get up and piss before this goes much further, but then Cas takes Dean's bottom lip in his teeth and tugs on it, worrying it like a curious puppy, and any motivation to move off the bed sighs out of Dean in one contented breath.   
  
Castiel is a really, really good kisser.   
  
It's not something Dean has ever admitted to anyone, but he loves kissing. Plain old kissing, slow, wet, deep, lose-yourself-in-it kissing that goes on forever. Sometimes he likes it more than the rest of it put together. And Cas learned fast, not just how to use his mouth but how shameless Dean can be about some old-fashioned making out.   
  
This is for him, this is all for him, the sharp kiss of Cas's teeth, the slow build, the tease of holding his body away from Dean as if he knows Dean will wait to touch until he can't anymore.  All for him. It's shocking, wonderful, terrifying. He makes a low noise when Cas kisses him, finally really kisses him, tongue slowly licking into his mouth, and grinds down at the same time, finally some friction, jesus, that's perfect. It's hard not to touch then, to grab at Cas's hips and hold him in place so their cocks rub together, skin on skin, but he doesn't, not yet.   
  
It's not like Cas would mind. But Dean wants this, wants to let Cas have his way, let him push and push until Dean can't take anymore. So he shudders as his fingers ache, clawing the sheets, and lies still and feels it as Cas kisses all the breath, all the noises, out of his mouth, as he finally pulls away to bite down the length of Dean's torso, to suck carefully at the knobs of his hipbones, to nuzzle and kiss and lick the crazy curls at the base of Dean's cock.   
  
He's so fried, every nerve buzzing with sensation, by the time Cas takes the head into his mouth to suck, he nearly comes then and there. But Cas tightens his hand around the base of it and holds him off, lays his cheek against Dean's thigh until he's stopped twitching with need.   
  
Actual coherent thinking is a little beyond him by this point, but if asked Dean would have said he expected tongue in his ass next. For Cas to fuck him, as long and as hard as he could. And that would have been A-okay with him, man. He's never let Cas go quite this far, not this way, and it's so good, floating, flying, feeling this,  taking it like this -- he's torn so far open, he's not sure Frankenstein's zippers could close him up again. He's not distracted, or dulled with beer, he's not working off the sharp-edged frustration of being too late to save innocent victims. He's completely present, and all he can feel is Cas, on him, over him, and soon, he thinks, in him.   
  
But instead of rolling him over to spread his legs, Cas stays crouched over Dean's calves, sucking his dick almost idly. Dean lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, fighting the urge to grab Cas's head and fuck into his mouth. He can do this, he can wait, even if it's starting to get torturous, all slow licking and mouthing, not enough friction, and fuck, he never knew Cas could be such a tease. So much for teaching him about sex -- apparently Dean's taught him a little too well. He's this close to begging, wants to come, and come and come and  come , and then float in that dizzy, buzzing place afterward while Cas fucks him. He's almost determined to raise his head and beg for it, but he's afraid to open his mouth because then something awful might slip out, like  Don't leave me please, everyone leaves me or  I love you so fucking much , and that ... that's not happening.   
  
Then Cas lets go of his cock and swings himself over Dean to straddle his hips. Dean opens his eyes just as Cas's knees tighten against his ribs, and one hand fastens on his cock, feeding the swollen length of it into Cas's hole inch by inch.   
  
And oh, sonofabitch, that's not what he expected. He can't even look at Cas's face, blue gaze trained on Dean, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He looks blissed out, stunned, and this isn't the first time Cas has been fucked, not by a long shot, but they've never done it like this. Dean's only ever fucked him from behind, with Cas on his hands and knees, or curved into Dean like stacked spoons. 

W here Dean can hide his face in the sweaty hollow between Cas's shoulder blades, where he can imagine Cas's wings spread beneath him, huge and awesome, and pretend that's why he feels like he's soaring, lifted high.   
  
Where he doesn't have to see Cas's face as Dean pushes inside him, stealing so much more than he's ever dared before.   
  
He can't move much like this, pinned by Cas's weight. He doesn't need to anyway -- Cas is riding him, rocking up and back down in an endless ess curve. Using him, taking what he wants, and oh, it's too much, Dean is shaking again already, the tight fist of Cas's hole gripping his cock ruthlessly, wet and hot. He wants to hang on, at least, get Cas's flesh in his hands instead of the sweaty knot of the sheets, but the minute he uncurls his fists, Cas growls, "No." Actually growls it, same way Dean had earlier, and Dean is so startled he just blinks, letting his arms fall flat on the bed. A thrill of something shameful and hot shudders up his spine.   
  
That's when Cas takes his hands, bending Dean's arms up so he can lean his weight on them, their fingers tangled together, and that's it. Dean bites down hard on his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. It couldn't be any clearer if Cas had decided to piss on him  -- he's marking his territory, staking his claim. He may the one with a dick in his ass, but Dean is  his . The fact of it floods through Dean with his orgasm right behind it, rippling up through the back of his thighs into his gut and his cock. He spills for what seems like forever, Cas's fingers wound so tight around his, he's pretty sure the pain is the only thing that keeps him conscious.   
  
Conscious enough to watch as Cas finally lets go of one hand to wrap his fingers around his own dick, jerking it hard and fast while he crouches over Dean. He hasn't even lifted off him, even though Dean's mostly soft now. And he still doesn't close his eyes, just watches Dean's face, his lips slightly parted as he comes, spurting wet and hot on Dean's belly.   
  
One day, Dean thinks idly -- and he knows he's just distracting himself, because if he thinks about what just happened, he's going to have a freakout worthy of Sam when the salad's gone or his hair won't flip right -- Cas is going to learn to talk during sex, talk dirty even, and he'll really be done for. Just watching as Cas finally separates them, sliding off Dean's spent cock carefully and thoughtfully licking one of his sticky fingers at the same time, is enough to make arousal curl tight and sweet in Dean's gut, like he didn't just come his brains out.   
  
Except then he makes like he's off to the bathroom, no big deal, one foot already on the floor, and freakout or not, fuck that noise. Dean grabs Cas's closest wrist. "Where are your manners, dude?"   
  
His voice is all gravel on sandpaper, but Cas just blinks and slides back onto the bed beside Dean, sweaty and boneless, laying one arm over Dean's ribs. "Thank you," he says, completely serious.   
  
And that's ... Dean bites back a rough laugh and angles his head to find Cas's mouth.  Thank you. As if he's the one who was given something too big to hold, something no hex box or spell or sigil could ever contain.    
  
He's kissing his own gratitude into Cas's mouth when a quick knock follows the door opening as far as the chain will allow, and the sound of Sam's voice from outside. "Dean? Dean, get up. Chuck texted. Dean? Oh! Uh. Sorry."   
  
The door shuts just as quickly, and Dean's pretty sure he's not imagining the sound of Sam tripping over the boats he calls feet as he stumbles away.   
  
"We should get dressed," Cas says, trying to sit up, but Dean holds him fast, licks into his mouth again before Cas can protest about the call of duty one more time. Motherfucker, Dean wishes that the winged wonder twins weren't turning their stupid playground tussle into global thermonuclear war. That Sam isn't the hand grenade nested in the time bomb covered in C4 that Dean worries he is. That he doesn't wake up too many mornings sweating and certain that Bobby has given up and eaten the mouth of his favorite pistol.   
  
But right now, mostly? He hopes that Cas can feel the  I love you in every press of Dean's lips.   



End file.
